


Artist's Touch (You May Wake Up Now)

by HansBlanke



Category: Man Who Fell to Earth (1976), Men in Black (Movies)
Genre: Fix-It, Gen, I'm Bad At Summaries, Not Beta Read, Post-Canon Fix-It, Present Tense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-15 01:08:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29925630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HansBlanke/pseuds/HansBlanke
Summary: A more radical rectification of Tommy's troubles.
Kudos: 2





	Artist's Touch (You May Wake Up Now)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still horny for Rip Torn. Also, I rewatched MiB for this. THEY PUT MICHAEL JACKSON IN THERE I SWEAR TO GOD—

_“Elvis is not dead. He just went home.”_

_MiB (1997)_

Yet again, Newton falls asleep at a table with some empty whiskey bottles on it. He’s leaned back in his chair, and the midday sun burns his face.

He’s aware of it all the way through his uneasy dreams where the memory of space travel and earthly torture mixes with weird fantasy. He dreams a true dream—as if in a weak solution of the same events, he was the one in charge, the one with power.

As if everything was alright.

The rational part of his mind is awake in no time, despite all the liquors he was trying to numb it with. As it starts analysing his dreams, he becomes aware that the blaze upon his face has changed in quality. It is not anymore alive with warmth; on the other hand, it’s still very direct. A midday sun would have moved from its position, instead of pouring him with light, so that he sees the bright red inside of his eyelids.

He opens his eyes, and the cafe is gone. Instead, bright lamps stare down at him from the white ceiling. He realises that his eyes don’t hurt anymore; oh, and there’s someone else in the room—a elderly man in a fine suit. He looks so familiar, straight from one of Newton’s dreams. 

As Newton tries to remember more, he finds that his knowledge of the world has come loose. What seemed like a solid fact a moment ago, is gone like sand through fingers; nothing to grip on, nothing to trust. He’s not even sure that he’s Newton anymore. Might be New— Ny— 

Not working. It's N-something, and it might be just N, for all he cares.

The man, though, doesn’t look dangerous. He watches N come to his senses with mild interest; his gaze softens as their eyes meet. The man approaches, stopping at a safe distance from N, his hands folded. “How do you feel?”

N considers possible answers. As he mutters, “I’m fine, thank you,” he does all he can to conceal his helplessness but the man seems to know what’s going on inside his head. 

“A confusing feeling, right?” he says with a trace of a smile. “It’s alright, take your time. If you happen upon questions—” 

That N has already done. “Why do I want to punch you in the face?”

The trace becomes a full grin. “Many people do— I mean, that’s normal _for now_.” The man turns away and paces around, waiting for more, then adds, “I take it that you liked the simulation.”

N wishes he knew. His memory is as blank as the white ceiling above him.

The man continues to pace and to talk. “I must say I’m impressed by some of the... plot twists you’ve created. It was created for drills and training, but look at you. You might not know what I’m talking about right now, but mark my words—there’s an artist’s touch to your work, yes, an artist’s...” He sighs and turns to face N. “Sorry about the memory numbing. You asked for the strongest one to enhance the experience; the lab should have known better, knowing how susceptible you are. It’ll come back to you, but maybe you’ll have to wait. How do you feel? Anything you want?”

“I’d like to get out of these straps, thank you very much.” N is suddenly aware that he’s seated in an armchair, that he’s attached to it by wrists and ankles, and that it looks very medical. He’s used to labs; being a lab rat is familiar, too, although not the knowledge he enjoys. "Also maybe a coffee and a week off to make sure who I am. I've got plenty of headache now, too."

The man laughs in a soft, pleasant manner. “When you got in there half an hour ago, you thought it would be, I quote, “relaxing”. Apparently it wasn't.” 

“It wasn’t,” N agrees. 

The other man doesn’t seem to really need an answer as he waits for N to unwrap himself. There’s a panel next to him; he taps its shell with his fingertips, like there’s a song stuck in his head. 

N knows it’s a good song. He only wishes he could hear it. 

“I’ve had those recorded for you,” the suited man says. 

“Oh?” N is all but headed for the exit, but this makes him stop.

“You wanted to send them to your family. I’m not sure you meant it, but I won’t decide that for you. Nice solos, too.”

N isn’t sure how to react. “Thank you,” he says just in case.


End file.
